


Dreaming

by grumpyhedgehogs



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Drowning, Fighting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks, Poisoning, Pre-Episode: Accepting Anxiety, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Stabbing, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyhedgehogs/pseuds/grumpyhedgehogs
Summary: Virgil hates his dreams for showing him what could be. He avoids sleeping at any cost- until it becomes inescapable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This might be a long one in coming so bear with me. I  
wanted to do some Virgil angst and slow burn comfort. I promise the comfort is coming. Eventually.

Often, Virgil would love nothing more than to forget that he is not one of the group. Sometimes, he has dreams about it, about things he wishes, hopes, desperately yearns for and knows he will never receive.

One difference he'd do just about anything to forget is his lacking in the ability to sleep. He only ever manages an hour or two at best and most nights he is up, prowling the halls. He pauses outside every bedroom in the mindscape, sinks to the subconscious just to make sure Thomas is resting comfortably. He check the locks on the doors and windows. He listens to the soft sleeping breaths of the Light Sides. He waits for morning and as the first fingers of light unfurl across the mindscape Virgil slinks back to his room, silent as a grave. It's almost natural at this point. 

But Virgil knows he's not looking for threats or doing this out is some messed up protective instinct, not really, He's doing what he does bast- running from his problems. Because if he sleeps he dreams. And Virgil can't stand to dream anymore. The dreams are too tantalizing, too tempting and truthful.

He dreams about having another debate with Logan, this one not antagonistic but warm and close and _comfortable_. In his dream, they spar back and forth like tennis players, the quips coming so fast it leaves his head spinning but the barbs are never sharp enough to catch on vulnerable flesh and the jabs are never hard enough to snap his head back. At the end, he doesn’t hiss, not even if Logan wins (in his dreams Logan always wins because why wouldn’t he? He’s _Logic_, and besides, how could anyone lose to _Virgil_?).

He dreams that he and Roman discuss Disney movies late into the night. His dreams are always soft and full of warm light and he even lets himself imagine a blanket falling across their laps as they sprawl on the couch, sides pressed snuggly together. It is always a kind laugh that falls from Roman's mouth, and in his dreams Virgil never sees Roman muttering about his dislike under his breath. In his dreams, Virgil imagines what Roman would be like if he actually cared about Virgil.

He dreams that Patton teaches him how to knit. It’s a strange thing to imagine, since he’s never actually seen the moral side engage in the activity, but in his dreams, anything is possible. In his dreams, Patton presses balls of yarn as soft as clouds into his arms and twirls the needles like battons. In his dreams Patton laughs when he makes something lopsided and calms him down when he drops a stitch. In his dreams Patton makes him a scarf of purple and black and flecks of white like stars in the midnight sky and Patton wraps it, warm and clinging, around Virgil’s neck.

But the worst (best) dreams are the ones Virgil has that start with him sitting alone on the stairs. He’s looking at his hands and they are always dirty and scuffed. He’s looking at his hands with the bitten down nails and the scraps and scratches from when he can’t keep the panic down. That is the most real thing his sleeping mind is capable of creating.

It hurts.

And then a hand lands on his shoulder and Virgil looks up. Thomas’s face is always open and softer than he’s ever seen it. He always smiles, just a little at the corners of his mouth and the corners of his eyes too.

“Hey,” Thomas says. “Whatcha doing?”

“Nothing,” Virgil grumbles, ducking his head. He goes to tuck his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie (the hoodie is two sizes too big and that’s on purpose because who wants to see the crescent marks where his nails dug in during the last panic attack? Who wants to see the smudges on his fingers and palms where he’d wiped his tears away and the eyeshadow had rubbed off too?).

Thomas always plops down next to him unceremoniously and tugs on his sleeve. “Hey now, that’s not true.”

And Virgil always watches, bewildered, as Thomas pulls his arm forward and pushes back the sleeve. Something always stops him then- maybe shock at being touched or wide-eyed fascination at Thomas’s willingness to touch him or maybe just plain curiosity- and he always ends up letting his host lace their fingers together.

“What am I doing, then?” Virgil asks, and in his dreams Thomas never snickers at the squeak in his voice. Instead, he smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle and something loosens and settles in Virgil’s chest.

“You’re keeping me company,” Thomas tells him. Thomas tells him this every time and Virgil never gets tired of it.

And then he wakes up and there is no hand holding his. There is no scarf made specially for him wrapped around his shoulders. There is no one settled comfortably up against his side. There is no one quietly offering the chance to debate something they both care about.

Instead, Virgil is alone in his dark bedroom. He stays there, staring up at the blank, pockmarked ceiling until he feels the summons coming (never an invitation, and never kindly given) and then he puts his game face on.

“Oh, Anxiety! God, I can’t stand that guy.”

Most days, Virgil can’t either. He's tired down to his bones. Next time he sleeps (if he sleeps) he hopes he won't dream of impossibilities.

_But maybe- maybe you're going about this all wrong,_ Virgil thinks to himself one morning while trying not to mourn the loss of Dream Patton's hands in his. _Maybe you're not addressing the problem._

This new idea- this, this new method or course of action Virgil is considering, it's risky. He's never done anything like this and even though he's not human and doesn't have the same needs that, say Thomas does, there's no telling what it will do to him. But he's already got insomnia, Virgil reasons. It can't be that bad in comparison.

So he grins and he bears it and eventually he just stops sleeping altogether.

Sleep deprivation is better than breaking his own heart every goddamn night. One can be cured with coffee. The other gets worse every time he sees the others’ faces. And, God, he’s breaking his own heart on the daily without his unconscious mind picking up the slack.

So he stops sleeping and for a while, it seems like it might be working. The sorrow doesn’t well up in his throat every morning; it’s ever-present in the knot in his chest, but Virgil is used to that. That, he can handle. But his hope for the future cloying and clawing and pushing its way into his sleep every night? That’s something Virgil could never hope to fight against. No, best to just cut his sleep off before his hope gets the chance to strike.

And so he doesn’t sleep. The circles under his eyes grow darker, get deeper. He snaps more often. The coffee maker almost breaks he’s using it so often.

He never notices the looks the others give him; he never sees Logan’s knitted brow, or the worry in Patton’s eyes or the stiff tilt to Roman’s shoulders. And sure, maybe they’re going easy on him these days, like that one time Roman brushed off his jabs and asked him if he was getting enough rest. But that’s just because the others are Light Sides. They’re supposed to be nice, even to people they despise. Virgil might not be sleeping anymore, but that doesn’t mean he can’t think rationally. This isn’t sympathy- it’s good manners.

Besides, this is a good thing! The dreams have stopped and he’s got more time to make sure everyone is safe in the night and he’s more vigilant than ever, so really, Virgil’s got nothing to complain about. Life is good.

And so of course he has to go and ruin it.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey, kiddo?”

Virgil, perched on the edge of the counter and clutching his mug of coffee like it is quite literally his last lifeline, grunts. That should be enough for Morality; an assurance that Virgil is, in fact, alive and still functioning enough that Thomas doesn’t have to worry. It’s smart, that Patton has started this process every morning. Taking stock of Thomas’s functions is a good idea. Virgil almost wishes he’d thought of it himself. It’s weird, though; he only ever notice Patton doing it with Virgil himself. Maybe Patton and the others just know how each other are doing regularly. Must be nice. 

“Anxiety?” Patton questions again, a little more insistent this time. Virgil grunts louder.

The moral side doesn’t move from where he’s leaned one hip on the counter, watching the side of Virgil’s face like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Virgil ducks his head further into his hoodie and tries not to flinch when Patton crosses his arms over his chest. 

“...What?” 

“Kiddo, are you…” After a pause Virgil turns, just enough for Patton to catch his raised eyebrows. Patton struggles before giving up and finishing lamely, “...doing okay?”

Virgil snorts but it lacks his usual derisiveness, and he knows Patton can tell that too. He pulls his coffee closer and resolutely ignores how heavy his eyelids feel. He’s had a headache for the last three days. It’s like anvils weighing down on the backs of his eyes. 

But Patton doesn’t move. He hums, soft and sweet and even though Virgil’s been fearing overstimulation from lack of sleep for days, the melody soothes something deep in his hindbrain. 

“You need some real food, hon.” Patton pushes away finally and Virgil- Virgil  _ misses _ him, God damn him. The guy’s not three feet away, rummaging through the fridge, and Virgil misses him. He’s not close enough. 

_ God, how pathetic can you get? _ Virgil hisses at himself. He should just leave; he can go back upstairs, lock himself in and turn the music up loud to ignore the way his arm tingles from the heat Patton was radiating. Thomas is only hanging out at home today, vegging out. There’s nothing for Virgil to do. He doesn’t have to interact with the others. He doesn’t have to hang around and feel how uncomfortable he makes them. He can be alone without risking sensory overload and the others won’t have to deal with him. It’s a win-win, really.

He’s just started to slide forward to hop off the counter when Patton turns around and, with a smile so large it squints his eyes near shut, holds out a bottle of-

“OJ,” Patton exclaims, shoving it into his hands. “Just the trick for a growing boy! You gotta keep up with those vitamins, kiddo.”

“Uh.” Virgil says. "I don't...like oranges?" That's a lie. He loves citrus. Fuck. 

When he fails to grasp the bottle, Patton loses some of the brightness but still smiles, just a little. He’s- he’s stepping forward, gently wrapping Virgil’s fingers around the glass and he’s-he’s-

Patton’s hand rests, a heavy, hot weight against Virgil’s nape. His fingernails scratch through the fine hair at the base of his neck and Virgil- Virgil  _ melts _ .

It’s like all the tension he didn’t even know he had is seeping out of his shoulders. It’s like Patton is pulling the fear and anger and the  _ twistedknottedbad _ feelings at the bottom of Virgil’s gut from him in one smooth motion. And Virgil is left so, so tired. He’s made it almost ten days without sleep- his longest streak has been eleven and he hasn’t even gotten to REM sleep the last few times he’s succumbed to his body’s needs. He’s pretty proud of himself right now, but in this moment it feels like Patton could knock him out with a well placed nudge. 

“Drink your juice,” Patton advises, dropping his voice an octave. The tone thrums in Virgil’s ears, low and comforting. He’s raising the bottle to his lips before he can even think about it.

Virgil drinks the juice. Patton hums, smiles, and strokes at the back of his neck with a steady hand. When the glass is empty, Virgil doesn’t even have time to look around before Patton is taking it from his hands and tossing it in the trash. Virgil winces, thoughts flashing to broken glass and bare feet, but Patton’s humming increases and Virgil settles. 

He’s in this weird gray space where everything is fuzzy and quiet. It might be the sleep deprivation. It might be the fact that no one has ever touched him for this long before. And normally Virgil would be worried- why would someone want to touch him like this? What are they trying to get out of him? Why would they do this with _him_ of all people?

But Patton is, well, Patton. He’s the nice, comforting one. He’d do this for anyone. Right?

_ It’s not like he’d do this just because you’re you, _ Virgil admonishes himself.  _ He probably just saw how tired you’ve been for a while and wants to make sure you’re not hurting Thomas. _

As if to prove his point, Patton takes that moment to press down gently on the back of Virgil’s head, guiding him to lean his forehead against Patton’s shoulder. The moral side’s cardigan is soft and smells like that one Christmas when Thomas was five and got his first bike. His humming drops a little. “How long has it been since you’ve slept kiddo?”

“Don’t need it,” Virgil mumbles, and promptly falls unconscious. 

~

It’s only for a moment, but that’s all it takes. 

Whatever part of his mind that has decided to torture him with the dreams has definitely been waiting in the wings to strike. He plunges into a dream within seconds; the only way he is sure that it is a dream is the fact that he feels a million times better- his eyes aren’t heavy, his lungs don’t feel close to collapse and his brain isn’t a pile of mush threatening to spill out his ears.

The world starts in a swirl of colors, indistinguishable and changeable. Virgil floats for a long time (or maybe very little- dreams are strange) until his surrounding solidify just as suddenly as he arrived. He’s sitting on the ledge of an Olympic sized swimming pool, the type Thomas’s friends always dare him to swim the length of in one breath. 

Virgil is terrified of drowning. 

But maybe it’s alright now, because he’s just swinging his bare feet in the cool water and the pool is empty, so no one is around to stare at him for keeping all his clothes on. The water laps softly at the sides of the pool and it’s soothing to his jangling nerves.

Patton is there. That’s nice.

Patton smiles when Virgil glances his way. He’s in swim trunks and has these ridiculous duck shaped floaties on his biceps, but he’s simply perched on the lip of the pool, seemingly content just swinging his legs beside Virgil.

“Hey, Anxiety.” Patton bumps their shoulders before lifting one hand (slowly, very slowly, so Virgil can see him coming) and letting it drop on the back of Virgil’s neck. Virgil bends with the new weight, lets it rest just above his shoulder blades and drinks in the warmth. He watches the water swirl between his ankles and cast strange blue light on his skin. He tries not to smile. “How ya feeling?”

“I’m tired,” Virgil answers truthfully, because what the hell, right? This is only a dream. And it does mean he’s failed at his mission. He’s dreading having to start again in the morning; it’s always worse, facing down sleeplessness after having a taste of a good night’s rest.

Virgil will have to deal with Patton when he wakes up too. God he doesn’t want to go back- it’s so quiet here. He’s safe here. Patton _loves_ him here.

“That’s okay,” Patton says. He’s rubbing soothing little circles into Virgil’s skin with his fingertips. Virgil feels something in his chest squeeze and expand at the same time and he has to curl his fingers around the hem of his hoodie to stop himself from reaching out. He can just make out Patton’s smile from the corner of his eye. It makes something warm flicker under Virgil's skin. “You can rest now. We don’t need you.”

Ice floods his veins. Virgil’s eyes flash up to Morality’s, but the other is still smiling, smiling, smiling away. His hand is too heavy on the back of Virgil’s head.

“Wh-what?”

“I said it’s okay if you need to rest, Anxiety. We don’t need you here anymore.”

Something is wrong here. There has to be something wrong here; Patton- Patton wouldn’t speak to him like this. Patton might not _like_ Virgil, per se, but he’s the kind one. He wouldn’t- wouldn’t-

Virgil tries to shake off the hand on him, but Patton’s fingers tighten, pressing deep into the flesh behind Virgil’s tendons. Virgil can feel his shoulders hunching, but he’s powerless to release himself from the other side’s grip.

“Th-that’s not true!” He cries. Patton’s eyes are still clear and blue and happy and Virgil closes his own because if there is a world where Patton can smile while bruising Virgil’s skin he does not want to see it. “Thomas needs me!”

_ It’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a dream- _

“Oh, hon,” Patton sighs. The noise is too derisive to ever have been uttered by Patton- isn’t it?

_ Maybe not if it were you he’s talking to. _

“Don’t you understand?” Patton asks, a thin veneer of kindness masking something cold as steel in his tone. His smile still hasn't drooped but as Virgil writhes in his grip there’s something missing from his eyes. 

It’s a dream, Virgil reminds himself frantically, peeling his hands from the pool’s edge to grip at Patton’s wrist. He’s wriggling like a hooked fish, trying desperately to maintain his balance while snatching at the other’s arm behind his head. But it’s no use- Patton’s grip is ironclad. He’s not going anywhere.

Then Patton jerks him forward so far he’s nearly bent in half. His nose brushes the calm surface of the water. Virgil can see how wild and wide his own eyes are.

_ It’s not a dream. _

“No one has ever needed you, Anxiety,” Patton informs him cheerfully. “And no one ever will.”

Virgil is plunged into the pool.

_ This is a nightmare. _

He tries to rise immediately, but Patton’s holding him firmly by the back of the neck still and he’s pushing down with considerable strength. That, combined with the weight of Virgil’s hoodie and jeans already becoming waterlogged and dragging him further down has Virgil thrashing in the water. His eyes burn with chlorine. The world is too quiet under the water and Virgil’s mind swirls with panic- he’s not getting any air! Patton is holding him down and he never learned how to swim and  _ he’s not getting any air! _

When his lungs reach capacity and demand to be relieved of the sharp breath he managed to take before the inevitable, Virgil tries to hang on for a few more precious seconds. But he’s weak, and Patton’s pushing him further underwater with what feels like all his strength. It’s taking all Virgil has to rage against the hands pinning him down. Eventually, Virgil has to release his coveted air.

A stream of bubbles rises from his lips and as he looks up, still bewildered by the other’s actions, he thinks he can see Patton laughing. The edges of that picture are growing dark, though, as Virgil’s brain screams for oxygen, so maybe Virgil is seeing things. 

His limbs feel like lead, his bones too tired to support him anymore. He inhales; as water floods his lungs his body rejects it and Virgil tries to cough. But there is nothing to replace the water with but more water.

The pool muffles all sound, but something distinctly like someone screaming his name- like _Patton_ screaming his name- reach his ears. It’s distorted and Virgil’s obviously concentrating on other things, but Patton sounds angry, or maybe scared. But he can’t be angry, can he? He’s holding Virgil under the water and laughing. How is he laughing and screaming at the same time?

Just as everything starts going from hazy to dark, something warm- when had he grown so cold?- wraps around his waist and _ pulls. _

He is ripped from the grip in his hair and as his eyes glaze over, he feels another arm- oh, he’s being towed by a pair of arms- wrap around his chest under his armpits and someone hauls him to the surface.

He looks up and meets-

~

Familiar bright blue eyes are staring at him wildly from two inches away. 

Eyes flying wide, Virgil yelps. Air- sweet, wonderful undiluted air- sails into his lungs and for a second Virgil can only flail back, clutching at his chest to feel it expand. 

It was a nightmare. It was only a nightmare.

But Patton is here in front of him- Patton who gave him juice and told jokes and laughed at Virgil’s lame attempts at humor sometimes. Patton who was worried that Virgil wasn’t getting enough sleep.

Patton, who Virgil just dreamed held him down under the water to get rid of him.

“Anxiety, oh my God,” Patton is sputtering. He reaches out, hands like pink starfish, hungry and grasping, tries to grip onto Virgil’s hands, his hoodie, his shoulder. “Anxiety, are you alright? What was that, what- you were under the water and I couldn’t get to you-”

Patton knows. Patton saw. Patton  _ was there _ .

Virgil gasps in another deep breath and tries to hold it, backing away. But he’s choking, sobbing and Patton steps forward, looking devastated-

Virgil turns tail and flees. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is taking so long! Lost some of my motivation and this chapter was a real exercise in getting it back.

Virgil shivers the whole night through, swiping his hands across his shoulders over and over again. Try as he might, he can’t get rid of the phantom water running in rivulets down his spine. 

The only good thing that comes from his terrible daydream is that Virgil is not at all inclined to fall asleep again. His heart races in his chest when he thinks about it now, and although he spends the next three days locked up in his bedroom, his blaring music and the stiffening of his spine when he thinks about closing his eyes are enough to keep him awake. 

Patton tried to follow him upstairs when he ran. The moral side spent hours knocking, begging for Virgil to come out. He finally had to put on his headphones to drown him out. He has no idea if the other side is still there. 

Not that Virgil would expect him to wait outside. He’s Anxiety, after all. No one really wants him around, least of all happy-go-lucky Patton.

Even as that thought curdles in his stomach, Virgil can’t help but remember how cold those soft eyes got when they looked at him from above the water.

Panic makes his heart stutter in his chest just thinking about it. He has to stop soon; any more of this and his emotions will leak over to Thomas. He can’t do that, not now. Not ever again.

_ It wasn’t Patton.  _ Says a little hopeful voice in the back of his head.

But wasn’t it? When Virgil woke up Patton had known. Patton had seen what happened. It was like Patton had been there in his dream. That didn’t just happen to people- that wasn’t a thing.

But what else could it have been but Patton sharing his dream? It wasn’t real, after all. If it were, he’d be dead by now. Or at least soaked.

Virgil is dry as a bone.

_ It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. _

_ So what was it? _

He falls asleep without realizing it while he argues with himself. He never hears the renewed knocking at his door.

This dream starts in a meadow.

The sun turns the long grass a golden hue and the air smells like growth and dark soil and morning dew. There’s a forest of evergreens a few yards away; their branches sway gently in the breeze. Daisies bob their heads in time with the trees, dotting the ground here and there in large, colorful patches. 

Virgil is sitting on a checkered picnic blanket, his face tilted to the sky. He closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of spring, and feels his chest relax almost against his will. Birds are chirping somewhere beyond his sight.

“Anxiety!”

He’s never heard that voice sound quite so jovial when curling around his name. Virgil tips his head back down, blinking his eyes against the sunlight. After the spots have cleared from his vision, Virgil sees Creativity striding out of the treeline, headed straight for him. Against his will, his lips twitch upwards.

It’s hard not to like Roman at this moment, though, not when he looks so content. His shoulders are broad and thrown back and his clothes are pristine. He raises his hand in greeting, and his teeth gleam in the light of the sun. Virgil doesn’t wave back, but he does shift to the side, leaving a conspicuous space on the blanket.

Roman does not hesitate to fill it, sliding into place with his shoulder lined up to Virgil’s like he’s meant to be there. He stretches like a cat in the warmth of the sun’s rays, sighing and grinning at Virgil when the anxious side pulls himself up to sit cross-legged. 

“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

Virgil shrugs, suddenly shy under the other's gaze. He never knows quite how to act around Roman, never sure what exactly will be the next thing Virgil says or does to set him off on a rant, and normally he wouldn’t worry about it but-

But right now, everything is perfect. The sun is shining, birds are singing, Virgil isn’t worried for once in his life and Roman… Roman looks happy to see him. 

_ Roman would never smile at you like that. _

“Oh, come on, Anxiety, even you have to be happy right now!”

“I am,” he says, in lieu of anything else. He has to drop his eyes when Roman’s grin softens at the edges and the creative side leans in to bump their shoulders together. He is a long line of comforting warmth against Virgil's side, warmer even than the sun. "It's nice out here. Quiet. I'm- I'm happy here. With you."

“And why wouldn’t you be?” Roman exclaims boisterously, waving a hand at their surroundings. Virgil follows the gesture, smiling at the flowers and the trees and the pervading calm of their surroundings. “After all, you’re not hurting anyone out here.”

_ This isn’t real, _ Virgil realizes just as ice floods him.  _ This is just like last time. _

Except last time Patton had been smiling at him as he plunged Virgil underwater. Except last time Virgil hadn’t had Roman looking at him with a smile that looks more like a baring of his teeth. Except last time, a sword wasn’t at his throat and Virgil wasn't falling back on his elbows in the dirt.

“Roman,” Virgil cautions, eyes darting about for a way out. Rain spatters down on his forehead, the tip of his nose. Clouds have begun to gather overhead and Virgil wonders distantly how he never noticed them on the horizon. He usually looks for stuff like that. Thomas could get sick if they get caught in a storm.

But the darkening sky only shrouds Roman in shadows. He looms over Virgil, still smiling that terrible smile and Virgil tries to scoot back but the blade at his throat prevents any true escape. Virgil swallows and feels a thin line of blood split open the skin under his Adam’s Apple. 

“Out here,” Roman continues, tone horribly conversational as he bears down more weight, “you can’t hurt Thomas any more than you already have. Aren’t you happy about that, Anxiety?”

“No, no-”

“No?” Roman surges to his feet and his eyes are darker than Virgil has ever seen them. His hair is whipped about his head in a halo by the fierce gale that has picked up. The dirt under Virgil is turning to mud with rainwater and he slips, falling flat on his back as Creativity rises above him like an avenging angel, blade pressed tight to Virgil’s sternum. “No, you want to go back? Back to Thomas? Back to hurting Thomas like you do every day?”

“No! No, I never- never wanted to _ hurt _ -”

“But you did,” Roman interrupts. “And I am here to make sure you never will again.”

And he plunges the sword deep into Virgil’s stomach.

Virgil screams on instinct. The first thing he feels is simply heat; he’s not sure if it’s from the surprise, or his blood or something else, but the pain only comes after. It spikes in an ice cold contrast to the initial heat and Virgil raises his hands to clutch at the blade still embedded in his middle, unheeding of the slices that open on his palms when he does. The blade is rending him in two, it’s cleaving him apart the more he struggles to get it out-

_ It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real- _

But it certainly feels real as Roman laughs above him in the dark.

The world is dark and confusing and his blood is too warm on his hands and there is something inside of him  _ please take it out  _ and Roman is laughing and laughing and then-

_ “Get away from him!”  _

That’s- that’s Roman’s voice, Virgil realizes distantly, but what does he mean? Virgil’s not anywhere near Thomas and it’s not like Roman needs protection from Virgil himself, not when he’s killing Virgil.

_ “You bastard, get away!” _

The laughter has cut off now, and through the haze that has descended on him Virgil can hear the sounds of a scuffle; someone growls and there’s the thud of flesh on flesh. 

His fingers finally find the strength to pull the blade from his belly just as the sound of a body hitting the ground reaches his ears. It hurts almost as much coming out as it did going in, but being free of the feeling of a foreign object inside of him is almost worth the gush of blood that flows over his white knuckled grip.

He lets the sword drop away from him as his hands go limp and he should really try to staunch the blood flow but everything is foggy and it hurts  _ so much  _ and his eyelids are so heavy.

Then deep brown eyes appear above him and Virgil recoils in shock. He ends up only flopping in the mud, and a small, animal sound of fear yanks it’s way from Virgil’s lungs.

Someone is talking to him, he realizes. That same someone is leaning over him, their hands pressed to his chest and oh that pressure hurts even more than he thought it would.

“You’re alright, you’re alright, you’re gonna be okay,” says a voice that’s getting fainter by the minute. Those eyes stare into his and they are so _ sad. _

“Anxiety,” says the voice that has to be Roman’s but why does Roman sound like he’s about to cry when he’s the one who did this to Virgil in the first place? “Anxiety, you have to wake up, okay? You’re not going to die, you’re safe, please, you just have to wake up. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. You just have to wake-”

~

“-Up!”

  
  


Virgil shoots backward, flailing. He manages to smack away Creativity by shoving at his shoulders violently. Virgil scrambles up the bed, gasping and shaking.

Roman looks about as bad as Virgil feels; he’s pale and sickly, almost. He looks like he’s going to vomit at any second. 

Instead, Roman opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Finally he croaks, “Anxiety, I-” and reaches out tentatively. “I don’t know what just happened, but are you alright? You were hurt-”

Virgil pulls his leg away before the other side can lower his hand onto his vulnerable ankle. He tries not to admit to himself that he’s cowering against the headboard.

“Get out.”

Creativity pulls back, looking conflicted. Virgil can hardly see through the tears in his eyes but he catches the emotions that flit across Roman’s face; confusion, worry, anger.

That last one makes his chest constrict even more than it already was and he realizes distantly that he’s going to pass out again soon if he doesn’t get oxygen to his brain.

_ You could get brain damage. How would that affect Thomas do you think? _

“Get out of my room,” Virgil says, louder than before.

“I- I was just trying to help,” Roman says and his voice breaks.

Virgil wants to sob. Instead he heaves himself up, glaring through his watery vision and shouts,  ** _“Get out!”_ **

He only gives into his instinct to curl up and hold his face in his hands when he hears the door swing shut. 

Virgil’s room is very quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

Virgil’s powers are_ stupid._ He controls what makes Thomas anxious, and how anxious Thomas gets over any one thing, but he does it to himself too in the process. It’s_ dumb_. If he were truly evil, shouldn’t he, oh he doesn't know, be laughing maniacally in the background instead of shivering on the floor of his room after a nightmare?

Virgil sobs again, convulsing so hard he almost dry heaves against his carpet. He doesn’t remember falling off the bed, but he’s pulled the blankets with him and is hopelessly entangled. His skin burns under too many layers of blankets and sheets and his hoodie and shirt. But he can’t get up, doesn’t have the strength to do anything more than keep the door to his corner of the mind shut tight. Shadows of his power lick at the edges of the doorframe; Virgil can feel them wanting to trickle out and control Thomas, dying to warp his thinking. 

This is exactly what Virgil has worked so hard to avoid.

**_“Stop it!”_** He thunders, getting enough of his control back to sit up, even as his hood pushes sweaty hair into his eyes and his tears obstruct his vision. His face feels hot and feverish in the way only fear and crying can make it, and his breath hitches up under his ribcage uncomfortably when he yells. He yells anyway.**_ “Stop it right now!”_**

The shadows flicker and flee, chastised. 

“It was just a dream,” Virgil tells the darkness of his room. The words sound even hollower than they did that morning--afternoon? He’s not sure how much time has passed. 

_Are you sure? _Whisper the shadows. Their words reverberate through his skull, making him wince and clutch at his ears. The tears flow again. His lungs won't expand properly. The only thing he can think to do is curl up tighter, but the blankets pull at his limbs and he thrashes, suddenly convinced he’ll never be free again. The darkness deepens around Virgil. _How can you be so sure?_

_He looked so horrified_, says a tiny, shining part of Virgil, the part that made all those nice dreams seem possible for so long. _Roman would never hurt you if it made him look like that, would he?_

Before, when Virgil was in his (somewhat) right mind, those words would have made sense. Now he just garbles out some inarticulate scream and tries not to pass out.

He doesn’t hear his door open, but he does feel it when his fears begin scrambling to get out again; Virgil stops breathing for a moment, concentrates hard, and _pulls_. They shrink back from the light of the rest of the mindscape, wrangled into dark corners and nooks and crannies, properly scared of his authority over them. He’s getting better at this.

The door closes with a light click and Virgil doesn’t even have time before an arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him upright against the side of his bed. The blankets encase his arms, making it futile to struggle and he must look so pathetic right now, wriggling like a worm, it’s got to be Patton holding him because he’s the only one kind enough not to say anything, or Roman because he feels bad about making this happen even when it’s Virgil’s fault, all stupid Virgil’s fault for having a nightmare that felt real, he can still feel the burning in his gut, the need for more air, his hair is wet his face is wet his eyes are wet he can’t _breathe _and someone is holding him up--

It’s not Patton. It’s not Roman.

“You are experiencing a panic attack.” Logan enunciates clearly, face exactly three inches from Virgil’s. “I have not previously seen you experience one of this magnitude, nor has Thomas ever had one this bad, so I have come to offer my assistance. I must commend you beforehand, however, on your ability to keep this from Thomas. It was...sneaky. And unexpectedly thoughtful.”

“You--you--” He still can’t breathe, but the tears have stopped, more out of surprise than anything else.

“We must get your breathing under control before we have any more conversation,” Logan decides, and settles, stiff but comfortable, against Virgil’s side. “I have heard that physical contact can help during an attack, but feel free to push me away if you are so inclined. Now, shall we start with counting your breaths?”

The whole situation is bewildering, but it is easy to fall into the familiar experience of in-hold-release, five-seven-eight, so Virgil does. His tears stay away but the breathing is harder to control, after having indulged in the panic for so long. But Logan is patient, and his arm is a heavy, reassuring weight across Virgil’s shoulders. Their knees knock together where Virgil’s are still bent awkwardly inside the sheets and Logan has sat down cross-legged.

_Remember what happened last time,_ say the shadows of his room. _Remember. Don’t forget. _

_I’m not dreaming. I’m not even asleep._

_Are you sure?_

Virgil’s shivers redouble, his throat constricting, and Logan’s brow furrows. He places a hand on Virgil’s chest and Virgil balks, eyes rounding. Like this, he's almost encircling Virgil, the back of Virgil’s head brushing the other side’s shoulder. He was too warm before, but no it feels like he’s boiling alive but Virgil can’t find it in himself to ask Logan to stop it. _What is he doing--_

_He’s checking my heartbeat, _he realizes when Logan frowns again and glances at his watch. _Keeping time. He knows my pulse is too fast._

_What do you think this is doing to Thomas? That’s why Logic is here to help, right? Do you think maybe Princy will come back and finish the job if you don’t get your heart rate under control?_

_Stop it,_ Virgil thinks. It is much harder to stop his fears when he’s the one they’re attacking.

“Is there anything more that I should be doing for you, Anxiety?” Logan asks. His voice is quiet, softer than it has ever been when addressing Virgil--gentle, almost, if Virgil were the type to use that word--and his tone is even and controlled. Exactly the opposite, then, of Virgil.

“Water,” Virgil croaks, and winces when he hears his own voice. It is raspy and broken and terrible to hear. He has been crying for a long time. “Please.”

Logan’s lips twitch at the polite afterthought, but all he does is incline his head and conjure a glass. When Virgil manages to wrest one hand free of the linen prison he’s constructed for himself, it is cool against his fingertips. He almost expects his skin to sizzle upon contact. The air is so still in his room, but he can’t exactly open the door to get some circulation.

He tries to take the glass for himself, but his fingers are weak, and he still isn’t getting air to his brain properly and he almost drops the glass. His other arm is twisted awkwardly around his own back and he doesn’t have the strength to get up and put himself to rights, so Virgil has a split second to resign himself to the fate of being slightly damp for a few hours. 

He doesn’t have to, though, because a sure, steady hand folds around his, catching the water before it can fall in his lap. “Careful,” Logan says, but with how gentle he’s being--like Virgil is a newborn colt, which would be aggravating in any other context but makes that small, bright part of Virgil curl up in his chest and shudder pleasantly now--it doesn’t sound like an admonishment.

“Sorry,” Virgil rasps anyway. Just to be safe.

_Why is he doing this for you? It’s not like he likes you. Patton probably put him up to it. Or he wants to make sure you don’t hurt Thomas. _

Logan shakes his head but keeps his silence and helps raise the glass to Virgil’s lips. His eyes are keen behind his glasses, watching for any sign that Virgil is uncomfortable. His face is tight, lines drawn from how hard Logan is concentrating and his cheeks are--

Virgil splutters, pulling back from the glass with a gasp; it had tasted strangely musty, but that’s not the issue. Virgil’s mouth is probably the origin of that strangeness. There are only a few sips left, thankfully, so he doesn’t make too much of a mess of himself. He feels the other’s bicep tense beneath his head but he’s too busy scrambling back to see Logan’s face more clearly to apologize.

“You don’t have any bags under your eyes,” Virgil says. It must seem like quite the non sequitur because Logan’s brows jump, and he disappears the glass with a wave of his hand. Virgil stammers under the scrutiny. “You--you should have--”

“Not all of us are able to due to the nature of our very beings,” Logan tilts his head in Virgil’s direction, “but I happen to get the optimal amount of sleep every night, hence why I do not have the same shadows under my eyes as you do. Although--and please don’t take this to mean I am prying--but you seem to not be getting enough sleep these days. More than usual, in fact.”

“I--how do you know about that?”

“Irritability, irrationality, sluggish movements, decreased appetite, and trouble concentrating are all signs of lack of sleep,” Logan lists off. He still hasn’t moved very far but Virgil’s body must be uncomfortable to hold like this, all bunched up fabric and jutting bones. “Although it is hard to differentiate these symptoms from those of the nature of who you are, Anxiety, yours have increased dramatically over the past few days to weeks.”

Virgil’s stomach drops even further but there’s something strange here, something his paranoia has latched on to and if he can just figure out why Logan’s face is bothering him so much he could figure it out.

_It’s his eyes,_ whisper Virgil’s shadows._ You know it’s his eyes. No one can stay here for so long without getting tired of you, Anxiety. What’s wrong with his eyes?_

“You’re not feeling the effects of my room,” Virgil realizes. Every bone in his body is made of lead; he can’t seem to move. Even if he could, where is there to go? “You should be--you should be freaking out right now. Why aren’t you--what’s happening?”

Virgil’s body isn’t listening to him anymore, the panic from before and his new terror rising to wrench his control away. The tears are back, streaming from the corners of his eyes, unbidden, unheeded. Logan doesn’t even react to them beyond a head tilt, a quirk of the lips. Virgil sags against the other side's arm and shoulder, the bedframe digging into his upper back. What is wrong with him? He’s been having trouble moving all this time but not like this, not so much that he can’t even feel in control of his own limbs. His lungs still feel pressure, but it's foggy now, like they’re not a part of him anymore. His brain is cloudy. There’s foam in his mouth.

_The water_, Virgil realizes, a second before his brain catches up with him. He tries to thrash and twist away from the other’s grip, but Logan just smiles and reaches out to wipe at his chin where the foam is gathering. He tsks under his breath, still smiling but his face is too angular now, too sharp and frightening. Virgil cringes away from those sharp teeth. 

“Oh Anxiety,” Logan says, voice too high and sweet as sugar, a tone too saccharine for even Patton. “Don’t you know not to go accepting help from strangers? And here I thought that’s the only thing you were ever good for. I’m sorely disappointed.”

_It’s just another nightmare, _says that hopeful piece of him, but that too is getting harder to focus on.

_Did you even fall asleep this time?_

Things are going fuzzy again, for the third time--_the final time,_ some small, dark part of Virgil hopes desperately--but he still has the presence of mind to try to lift his one free, deadened hand and push at Logan’s chest. Anything to_ get away._

“The only stranger here,” says another voice, too familiar not to be instantly recognizable, “is you. Now if you would kindly unhand my friend here, that would be appreciated.”

_It can’t be,_ Virgil thinks. _Logan is sitting right here._

_He’d never call you his friend,_ the shadows agree. They are growing now, filtering in at the edges of his vision, clawing their way across his ceiling and over the bedspread, reaching for his fingertips. 

“And what if I don’t?” Asks the Logan holding him, smiling all the while. God, but Virgil sort of wants to punch his lights out.

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” says the new Logan, and the stern, dangerous tone of voice almost puts Virgil at ease.

Then the convulsions start and he loses track of things for a while. Stress and shock make waves of tingles flood his body, again and again and again and he doesn’t know what kind of poison he’s ingested but it’s making him weak and disconnected but it also makes his insides feel like they’re being set on fire and liquefied all at once. He can feel more foam coming to his lips and filling his throat and tears wash it away from his face. He thinks maybe his nose is bleeding.

There's a flurry of movement, and at the corners of his eyes, Virgil can see sharp jerks of color, flitting in and out of sight like birds. Someone’s fist, someone’s elbow. A pair of glasses, maybe, flying off into the darkness of his room. But then his vision starts going and Virgil can’t get up the strength to turn around and look at what’s going on.

There are hands on him again and Virgil isn’t sure when he’d been let go in the first place, but these new palms are warm and dry and they wipe away all of the gunk on his face. The weak light in Virgil’s room, dimming fast, glints off of Logan’s glasses. Worry etches plain across his face and there are deep shadows under his eyes.

“Anxiety, can you hear me?” Logan asks, voice urgent and careful. He’s cupping Virgil’s face and his skin is too hot, the waves coursing through him feel like needles now and it hurts so much that his vision greys out for a few seconds. Logan shakes him a little and the colors snap back into place, but his vision is still tunneling. “Anxiety, if you can hear me, I don’t know what's happening but I think you’re hallucinating, or bringing your dreaming into reality or--I’m not sure, I’m sorry, I know it’s my job but just--just wake up, alright? You have to wake up--”

Virgil gasps, reaches one hand up to clench his numb fingers desperately around one of Logan’s wrists, and feels his eyes roll back in his head.

Virgil knows no more. 


End file.
